


Hurricane and Drizzle

by miominmio



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bloodplay, Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, Heartbreak, Jim Being Creepy, Knifeplay, Love, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Violence, Submissive Seb, Unrequited Love, Violence, dub con, mormor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-04 10:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5330513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miominmio/pseuds/miominmio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An examination of Moriarty's and Moran's relationship in several acts. Its bloody start and its messy middle and its bitter end. Sebastian Moran becomes the unwilling spectator to Jim Moriarty's crimes on humanity. He watches his boss murder and torture and change faces like people change clothes. He himself appears at the shorter end of Jim's anger.<br/>And yet... no matter how bad it gets, no matter how dark it is, he believes that Jim is worth loving. That Jim is worth taking care of. If it so kills him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ACT I

**Author's Note:**

> This story is separated into Acts, as is the tradition of Moriarty's favourite musical genre: operas. Will update regularly and often, since I write on it daily. Please leave feedback for me to build upon, so as to know what I'm doing well and what I could do better. 
> 
> A final warning: The first chapter contains descriptions of graphic violence and later chapters will also include explicit sexual content AND graphic violence. If you do not like it, the story is not for you.
> 
> Music mentioned in the chapter: Nessun Dorma by Puccini (Best version on youtube is the one with Jussi Bjorling)
> 
> Now, get reading and enjoy :)

The men come at night.

  
Sebastian Moran dreams of tigers and oil as the men disable the lock. He sees fangs and claws and in the living room, black boots tread over the rug. A handle is pushed down slowly.

Sebastian awakes, in his damp bed and in the desert. He sees eyes in the dark. Creeping out of his bed and back into the shadows, he waits. The curtains move from the draught of his breath.

  
The first man collapses with a bleeding eye socket. The other intruders take cover – a bullet cracks the window above Sebastian’s hand. He returns the favour, the man yelps.  
Then the shadow appears. In the doorway he stands, one red eye pulsating like an open vein.

  
Sebastian pulls the trigger. The shadow jerks back and holds on to the doorframe to not topple over. It doesn’t stop him. He advances toward the sniper like a great storm cloud. Before Sebastian gets in another shot, the shadow rips the curtains down and grabs hold of Sebastian, pinning him to the wall. Looking down, Sebastian sees his bullet still stuck in the thick breastplate.

  
The shadow’s gloved hands squeeze Sebastian’s throat. He chokes, feeling his lungs burn as they haven’t done since Tunis. The shadow unsheathes a butterfly knife as big as his forearm. And Sebastian sleeps naked.

  
Sebastian has dealt with these guys before, though. Elite as they are, they still have done nothing about the nearly ridiculously obvious chink in their armour. Before he passes out from the asphyxiation, he jabs his thumb, sharp and hard, into the eyepiece of the shadow, pushing it into the eye. With his adversary temporarily blinded, he wrestles the knife out of his grip.

  
Sebastian stabs the man deep, deep in the stomach. Hot blood seeps over his hand.

  
Suddenly he’s back in the jungle. There is the tiger and there is Sebastian. Both look at each other, wondering who will live and who will not. Sebastian carries the tiger’s signature on his chest. The tiger is limping. They’re breathing hard, sweating. The jungle is too small for both of them to live.

  
Back in the coolness of his bedroom, Sebastian uses the dying man as a shield when he grabs his gun back and takes the second batch of men out. He doesn’t miss a single shot. What he does miss is an arm wrapping around his neck like a lover’s embrace and bringing him down. His head is seized and bashed against the floor, sending Sebastian hurtling into cosmos. So he does the only reasonable thing he can do.

  
He grips the back of the neck of the other man and head-butts him, hard. The edges of his vision blacken. There are the stars again. But he manages to stay conscious. His nose is bleeding, his eyes are watering. However, he is alive.

  
The man tries one last time to get hold of Sebastian, jamming a knife into Sebastian’s ankle. Sebastian thinks he can hear the blade scrape against bone. It reverberates throughout his body, like a bolt of lightning. Before the pain registers, before it becomes real, Sebastian picks up his gun and points it at the man’s head.  
The air crackles and breaks and the rug soaks the blood up.

  
With a grunt, he pulls the knife out of his ankle. His leg wobbles. He has to grip the desk so as not fall down. The pain comes creeping up on him slowly like a nightmare. But the knowledge that it will get worse once the adrenalin is gone from his blood-flow hurts more.

  
And all around him there is only death. Death staining the walls, the curtains, the rug. Death on his skin. The smell is so thick and the darkness of it so deep that it doesn’t matter where it begins and where it ends.

  
A wash. Clean water over his hands and body. Only then can he take care of the collateral. He limps out of the room.

  
The well-dressed stranger lounging on the couch looks up. The instant impression that burns into Sebastian’s retina is the dark hair and the dark eyes, and the nonchalant posture. As if he is some friend of Sebastian’s who just popped by for a visit. The stranger pulls out the earbuds in his ears and Nessun Dorma fills the silence. He takes his time to stop the music.

  
The mastermind of the operation, then. Though by the slight mask of amusement on his face he doesn’t seem to give a shit about all his dead men. He is unarmed, as well, but faces Sebastian, who still holds his gun in his hand, unfazed.

He looks bored.

  
Slowly, he rises from the couch, buttoning his suit jacket as he does. One step toward Sebastian is all that is needed for the retired colonel, up until now transfixed, to point the gun between the stranger’s eyes.

  
Deep in the nest of his heart, Sebastian feels a slither of worry. He is not so much afraid of the man physically, as he is of the reaction he seems to have evoked in him. He is naked already, but something about the terrible emptiness of the stranger’s eyes feels like he is being stripped to the bone.

  
He feels the plastic of the trigger, the pulse in the tip of his finger, just shoot GOD DAMN WHY CAN’T HE SHOOT.

  
The stranger doesn’t look at the gun, there is no fear that widens his eyes. He glances at his watch and sighs. Theatrics. “Well, gee.” Soft-spoken he is, with a layer of Irish. “Look. At. The. Time.” All his words, so exaggerated, so drawn out. Sebastian’s finger trembles on the trigger. “I should go. I don’t want to be keeping you.”

  
He takes just one more step toward Sebastian, a smile on his lips.

  
Sebastian’s eyes latch on to the stranger’s and don’t let go. He stares into the heart of darkness and the heart of darkness stares back. The ground around them freezes and Sebastian’s breath mists the air. When the stranger breathes, there is no cloud of white. There’s just him.

  
Sebastian’s finger on the trigger inadvertently jerks, but the gun jams and doesn’t spit a bullet. He didn’t mean it to happen, but he had lost control of his body. Of his whole being.

  
“Good night,” the stranger whispers and his breath smells of peppermint.

  
A shock connects with the back of Sebastian’s neck and he is seized in its power. His muscles spasm and his legs fold as if he is made of paper.  
Behind him, the man with the broken red eye leans heavily against the wall, clutching his bleeding stomach with one hand and holding the taser in the other.

**Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!** No one sleeps! No one sleeps!

**Tu pure, o, Principessa,** Even you, oh princess,

**nella tua fredda stanza** , in your cold room,

**guardi le stelle** watch the stars

**che tremano d'amore** which tremble with love

**e di speranza**. And hope.


	2. ACT I - Scene Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you everyone who have left kudos/subscribed/bookmarked! It does truly inspire me to continue on with the story. 
> 
> For this chapter, part two of Act I, unfortunately I have to issue the same warning as before: there is a lot violence, and it is more graphic this time. Once you read the chapter you'll understand what I mean. But what I can guarantee is in part three of Act I we finally get to spend some time studying the Sebastian/Jim dynamic, as the first two parts can be seen as merely a preface. Part three should thus be available soon.
> 
> Again, thank you for reading and don't forget to leave some feedback to let me know if I should continue or not. Sometimes I get into a bit of a writer's block so feedback would definitely spur me forward.
> 
> x miominmio

**Act I - Scene Two**

The men were gone, the blood still there and Sebastian was left alive. If it meant anything, seeing as they would be back. There would be more of them next time, as well. Sebastian’s ankle healed, his concussion passed and the bruises on his neck faded. But his heart was frostbitten beyond repair and no amount of bourbon could numb the ache. Then again, he suspected that no one could face the dark-eyed man and walk away just. like. that.

The tigers of the civil world wore costumes now and their guile was better hidden. Their muscles were henchmen, their fangs shiny, shiny knives. They set traps and watched their prey fall for their tricks, time and again.

**I’m just a poor boy,**

**I need no sympathy**

**Because I’m easy come,**

**easy go**

**A little high,**

**a little low**

**Anyway the wind blows,**

**doesn’t really matter to me, to me**

Sebastian wakes to a Bohemian Rhapsody earthquake. The water in the glass he’s put aside on his desk is sploshing back and forth. The walls are vibrating. Meanwhile, Fred Mercury’s voice fills the 2 A.M. silence. He feels for his gun under the pillow, but it is gone.

With no time to spare, he grabs the crowbar from under his bed instead. Just in time, too, because the next moment they have kicked down his bedroom door. The streetlights outside streaming in through the window illuminate the heavily armoured mercenaries. The first one to charge at Sebastian receives a face-full of crowbar before it is wrenched from his hands. The mercenary drives his boot into Sebastian’s gut and then again into his shoulder as the retired colonel doubles over.

**Too late, my time has come**

**Sends shivers down my spine**

**Body’s aching all the time**

**Goodbye everybody I’ve got to go**

**Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth**

The man is taller than Sebastian and seems to have a much more extensive military training. But he is just a man – and Sebastian is a tiger slayer. Before the mercenary manages to kick him again, Sebastian rolls away and jumps up in one smooth movement. Grabbing the rattling water glass, he rams it into his adversary’s face. A crunch! – and there is blood, glass and screaming everywhere. The music drowns out any noise.

From then on, he is fighting a three front-war with the rest of the mercenaries ganging up on him. Steel-rimmed boots bring him down and metal fists hammer his body, but each time he falls, he stands back up again. He kicks a mercenary in the stomach straight through the broken door and thanks all his lucky stars that he was too drunk to take his clothes off tonight.

In the living room, there is an incessant knocking on the door. Shouts about loud music and police can faintly be heard over the music. Sebastian notices that somebody has brought in Hi-Fi speakers that aren’t his. He is too busy to turn them off though. Another man grabs Sebastian by the back of his shirt collar while he is distracted by the speakers and drags him toward the front door. A wolf mother reprimanding her young cub. Sebastian follows the trails his shoes make in the rug with his gaze. When the man leans down to get a better grip, Sebastian slings his arms around his neck and kicks his feet off the ground so quickly that there is a sickly snap! as the man’s neck breaks. The mercenary lets go of Sebastian and crumples to the floor, his eyes glossy like a plush toy’s.

Half a dozen men remain. But Sebastian is tiring quickly and Bohemian Rhapsody, playing on repeat, is seriously inhibiting his attention. His punishment for losing his grip doesn’t wait. Both of his feet are kicked out from under him. He is slammed into the refrigerator so hard that a bottle of gin rocks precariously on top of it. Pinned down, his eyes scan the kitchen desperately for a weapon. The knife rack is too far off. But Sebastian sees something better.

An expression of surprise spreads over the mercenary’s face like sunshine when Sebastian brings down the mortar over his head. A single stream of blood flows down his pale face, in between two wide eyes. By that time Sebastian has already moved on. He briefly reflects upon the fact that none of these men are carrying guns, but immediately has to refocus on his next target. There is the sharp sound of metal against wood as Sebastian takes the slenderest knife out of the rack. The man he faces grins. “Going for the girly knife, ey?” he drawls. In one swift flick of his arm, Sebastian gives him the gift of a second smile, right beneath his first one. A red smile.

The mercenary who sneaks up on Sebastian from behind gets a knife in the stomach. In return, Sebastian feels a white-hot pain as his hand is twisted back. Even in all the noise, Sebastian hears bones snap. The scarlet knife drops soundlessly to the floor.

Even with his hand injured, panting and losing touch with reality, Sebastian snarls at the rest of the men, ready to take them on. _Just bring it_. He will die. But he will die anyway. Might as well go down swinging.

The men, though, stop. There’s a hesitation to their movements now and when they regard Sebastian, they do so with trepidation. Even with far better protection and size, they fear the ex-soldier. He is too wild for their liking. An animal let loose from its cage.

Five shots ring through the air, clear and crisp even in the cacophony of the playing music. Four soldiers fall with bleeding skulls. The fifth bullet kills the speakers.

The flat is cast in silence, and darkness.

Sebastian looks around, squints to see the dark-eyed man in some corner with a smoking gun. His eyes must be failing him, because there is no one around. But when he studies the bullet wounds of the executed mercenaries, he knows the shots could only have come from within the flat.

A whistle breaks the pulsating silence. It’s the chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody. It’s a soft tune that floats in the dark, almost endearing. The hairs on Sebastian’s arms stand up. No one emerges from the shadows however. Sebastian waits and waits, barely daring to move. Even the tune ends though, and is gone.

**I see a little silhouetto of a man**

**Scaramouch, scaramouch will you do the fandango**

**Thunderbolt and lightning very very frightening me**

**Gallileo, Gallileo,**

**Gallileo, Gallileo,**

**Gallileo Figaro - magnifico**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thank you thank you for the great feedback that you have given me for this story. It means the world to me, it does. It also works as an incentive for me to update faster, even though I have loads of other troubles on my plate at the minute.
> 
> Speaking of which, I am going through a period of temporary physical sickness so if the content varies in quality and character, I do apologize and I'll blame it on my stupid immune system acting up. Oh well.
> 
> As usual, please leave some feedback and don't forget to check out my other story: Walls of Waves about Johnlock set in Viking times.
> 
> Thank you for your attention and enjoy the read!

“Sssss-ebastian…”

The voice slithers over the back of Sebastian’s neck like a python, wrapping its scaled body around his throat. A familiar twinge of fear in his heart – and accompanying it, another sensation. Something closely resembling _pleasure_. Dark pleasure.

“No point pretending to be asleep, my dear,” whispers the voice into his ear, soft and hot on his skin. “I know for a fact that you’re a-w-ake!”

Sebastian opens his eyes and looks out over his bleak apartment. The ex-soldier can see the dark eyed stranger’s shadow on the floor in front of him. The floor out of which he couldn’t fully soak up the blood, despite all household remedies he tried.

His wrist is still cocooned in a cast and thinking about the events unfolding a few weeks back brings back the pain like an echo of what once was. In his lap rests his most premium rifle, silencer attached and all. After the cacophony of the last incident, he has been expecting all sorts of people. Police, more mercenaries, even SWAT. He decided firmly a while back that he is not going to prison and that he is not going to surrender. Everyone to try to bring him out of his apartment would receive a bullet in the brain.

But then there’s the independent variable: there’s the man with the brilliant plan, the conductor, the mastermind who puts Puccini to shame. As much as a threat that is posed to his own life, Sebastian can’t bring himself to kill him. It would be devastating. The man is after all as much beauty as he is destruction, like a storm. A hurricane. It would do as much as good as defying mother nature.

Instead, he contemplates a much more different ending. He isn’t as sharp as the man behind him, but he knows what is going on. This – the whole charade with the mercenaries, the nightly visits – it’s a psychopath’s idea of flirtation. Sebastian Moran is being offered a _job_.

He’s been through this before. In the Middle East, moguls seated on thrones of gold, thought to convince him by threatening him, beating him. He has always been able to evade it though, somehow.

Until now.

Like a bulldog that bites and never lets go, Sebastian knows that evading this man is impossible. He is the sort that always gets what he wants.

So, ultimately, he has two choices – either he gives in, or he ends it on his own terms. Regardless of what he chooses, he knows that death is inevitable.

Slowly, with his hands in his pockets, the man walks around the couch and faces Sebastian.

“Stand.”

The playfulness of his voice is gone. It is replaced by the cold darkness of which Sebastian glimpsed during their first encounter. Commanding, insincere.

Sebastian was a _colonel_. He had superiors, but mostly he was the superior. He issued out orders and watched his men follow them. Even when he was abducted and tortured, he never stooped so low as to follow the instructions barked at him, for which he was almost beaten to death. But Sebastian was a man of dignity with _values_.

That was then, though. Sebastian rises slowly from the couch.

With a theatrically disappointed grimace, the man shakes his head slowly. In the feeble morning light, his pupils obliterate the irises, making his eyes seem blacker. Deeper. “When you’re _mine_ , Sebastian, you will never hesitate to _obey_.”

_I will never obey you. Go to hell, you and your men. I don’t care if you kill me, I don’t care what you do to me, but I will never follow anybody’s orders, let alone yours – is all that Sebastian doesn’t say._

The man stares at him expressionlessly for a good long while. A python, just about ready to strike. Suddenly he throws back his head and laughs. “Oh my,” he says between breaths,” but what am I saying? You’re already mine.” With a few steps he closes the distance between himself and Sebastian. “I’m Jim. Hi!”

Jim.

Jim.

_Jim_.

The last piece of the puzzle falls into place. Jim. James. James Moriarty. Operating as an assassin deep within a shadow network, Sebastian has heard the name before. But it’s always been rumours and half-truths and nobody he knows of has ever seen his face anyhow. He should have known. He should have seen it coming.

Moriartry has seen the revelation in Sebastian’s eyes – his smile widens. A sharp smile it is, razor-sharp and Sebastian feels it cut all his insides up.

Then Moriarty once again pulls the rug from under Sebastian’s feet as he drops to one knee in front of the ex-soldier. “Colonel Sebastian Moran, would you do me the honour of becoming my sniper?” he purrs and the snide humour is all there on the surface, in his voice, in his expression. It is so twisted in its meaning that Sebastian can’t help wonder if Moriarty has any sort of sense of reality.

His tongue feels like sandpaper when he replies: “If I say no?”

Moriarty remains on one knee but his patience is slowly slipping off him like wet paint. “Oh,” he sighs dramatically,” it is really _cute_ that you seem to think there is a choice.”

Sebastian feels the cold steel and lead of his rifle in his hands. Realisation dawns upon Moriarty as Sebastian directs the barrel at his throat.

“There is always a choice.”

Dying on his own terms instead of being ripped apart by the whirlwind that is Jim Moriarty. Yes, Sebastian can see the appeal of that. Besides, he has no family, no friends, nothing and no one who will miss him when he’s gone. It is the easy way out, but despite the allure of Moriarty, the alternative just isn’t worth it.

Moriarty gets up on his feet and brushes the dust off his flawlessly ironed suit trousers. “I thought you were special,” he sulks,” how disappointing.” He shrugs. “Oh well. My mistake. But consider this:”

Sebastian’s finger trembles on the trigger.

“You can die now or you can die later, having experienced what no man gets to experience. You’ll see places the world never has seen, be part of plots that _ordinary_ people don’t even get to hear about. You’ll get to be by my side – and darling, I am after all the single most dangerous and exhilarating man in the world.”

He digs the sole of his shoe into a crack in the floor. “Or you can just die a boring death. I mean, as you said: there’s always a choice…”

Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it damn it all. Why is Sebastian suddenly so afraid of disappointing this man – why is he afraid of appearing small in Jim’s eyes. Like nothing else in the world, it suddenly has become the most terrifying of things.

“Why me?” he croaks, lips chapped, the inside of his cheek bleeding where he has been biting it.

Moriarty smirks. “Maybe I think you’re cute.”

With that, he takes the rifle from Sebastian’s hands and disassembles it, first the silencer, then the clip, then the rest. With a heavy clanking, the metal pieces fall to the floor. Sebastian feels disassembled, as well.

Moriarty raises his eyebrows and shoves his hands back into his pockets. “Well then, that was easy.” He has a look around the flat, disgust evident in his grimace. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to get out of this dump. No doubt there is a nice villa or studio that we can _arrange_ for you. I’ll be in touch as well, when I need you.”

Now that he has secured Sebastian’s consent – well, forced it – it seems that he has almost grown bored of his new sniper. A child, tired with his toy moments after getting it.

But when Moriarty looks at Sebastian, the soldier can feel his insides dissolve and heat bloom over some areas that he wouldn’t be ashamed to mention and some areas that he would. Sebastian begins to realize that he will live for these moments, that he will yearn for Moriarty’s attention, because it is like having the light of the moon shine on you and you alone. Violence or affection – bitter or sweet – any way that Moriarty will communicate with Sebastian will be much better than anything, in fact, it will be the best sensation ever.

When Moriarty next locks eyes with Sebastian, the black don’t let go of the blue. So unfaltering is the darkness in the genius’s eyes, so sweet to bathe in, to drown in. When Sebastian stares into Moriarty’s eyes, he wonders why he would ever choose to commit suicide over a fate with this man.

Staring at the man who has decided to own him, Sebastian begins to realize.

Moriarty is his tiger, reborn in a new form, and ready for one last dance with colonel.


	4. ACT II - Scene 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian learns what it means to be Jim's fuckboy. What it says on the tin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to duly apologise for the long hiatus. Seriously. It sucks. I know. And all you fantastic AO3 people who have bookmarked and kudos'ed and whatnot, I've let you down. I hope this is an adequate apology. Simply trust me when I say I had legitimate reasons to be away for so longs.
> 
> Thank you again, those of you who show your support. Thank you to the anonymous readers as well, I haven't forgotten you :) I was one such reader myself once.
> 
> Anyways, chapter four. Enjoy!

It’s in the darkness that life _really_ starts. Writhing bodies, gleaming white teeth in the glare of the black-light bulbs. The music conducts the rhythm of the hundred or so hearts beating in unison. The ground shakes, the ceiling threatens to collapse. The smell of energy drink-induced alcohol permeates the air.

Sebastian walks through the rave, parting the crowd like the Red Sea. He’s got his M82 slung over his back and the intoxicated kiddies are non-the-wiser. It’s addictive – the feeling of power. No wonder it’s Jim’s drug of choice.

Speaking of the devil – Sebastian spots his boss hanging out by the bar. It doesn’t surprise him to see the Irishman dressed in the garb of a bartender, handing out drinks to unknowing civilians. As Sebastian slides up to him, he is just in the process of preparing an absinthe cocktail tinged a poisonous green.

“Not for you,” Jim says without looking up.

Sebastian smirks. “Not fair.”

It’s always a bit of a gamble to be arrogant with Jim – it’s been only a few weeks since Sebastian’s impromptu employment, but he’s a quick learner. And with Jim, you have to be an even _quicker_ learner. Let slip an inappropriate comment and Jim is quick to react: with his hands, with any tool available to him at the moment. Only from time to time is he lenient with his punishments – like he is now.

“I need my sniper on his best behaviour.” Jim looks up and in the neon lights his skin glows blue and his eyes are bottomless. He licks his lips and Sebastian loses all brainpower for an instant.

Together, they watch the dancing people. It’s transfixing to behold – the fluid movements, the sparkle of a particularly extravagant piece of clothing. If Sebastian were a braver man, he’d take Jim by the hand and lead him out onto the dance floor. They’d intertwine their bodies and become one until dawn.

But the only thing on Jim’s mind tonight is murder.

Usually, he lets others like Sebastian do his dirty work for him. He only ever does things himself when he feels particularly scorned by someone. Apparently, there is one such man present in the nightclub this November eve. And Jim has something particularly nasty prepared for the lucky chap.

When Jim tells him to, Sebastian leaves the tumultuous bar and follows his boss through the crowd and into the gents’, where they temporarily receive a reprieve from the chaos going on outside.

Sebastian feels fortunate that they’re in a posh nightclub as the bathrooms are blissfully free from the smell of piss you can usually expect in a place like this. He shakes his head when he sees that they even have a complimentary basket of mints by the sinks.

There is only one other man in there with them, currently washing his hands. He looks up briefly as they walk in – and freezes. When he sees Jim his pupils visibly dilate.

Jim smiles and locks the door.

 _Check_ , Sebastian thinks.

His boss looks especially predatory tonight in the simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is thoughtlessly mussed and in Sebastian’s embarrassing fantasies, it’s him who is the cause of that.

Jim’s victim-of-the-night is not unattractive either. He’s about a decade younger than both of them, with an endearing mop of ginger hair and innocent, green eyes that are now widened with fear. Jim seems to have a penchant for picking the cute ones, truly.

The man backs away from Jim until he has his back pressed against the onyx tiles of the wall. Something about the way he has his gaze fixed on the ground instead of on Jim tells Sebastian that this is no ordinary employee of Jim’s. His curiosity is inevitably peaked.

“Max,” purrs Jim as he advances on the demure man, taking his time, his hands carelessly shoved into the pockets of his trousers. “Who said you could go and have a life without me, pet, hm?”

The man named Max doesn’t reply but keeps stubbornly looking down at the space of floor between himself and Jim. Sebastian makes note of the expensive fabric of his suit. His trigger-finger twitches and he wonders what kind of plans Jim has made for the night. Feeling the secure weight of the rifle on his back, he feels prepared for anything.

Jim tuts at Max. “Feeling shy, are we, darling?” Without turning around to his sniper, he continues: “Sebastian – this is Max. Max – this is Sebastian. Maximillian here is an old friend of mine from Dublin, isn’t that right dear?”

“It’s been years…” The voice of Max is an echo of Jim’s Irish drawl and in Sebastian’s mind, an image of what is going on begins to form.

Jim walks up close to his countryman, so close that his breath makes Max’ long ginger hairs move in its wake. “No amount of time will free you from me,” he whispers and lets the tips of his fingers brush the lapel of the younger man’s suit. “I created you. I gave you everything that you have. How did you repay me? By fucking off to China for seven years. And little sentimental me let you. But I made an oath the day you disappeared, dear – oh, believe me I was angry. I swore that if you ever came back to the Isles I would burn you… and now, well here you are.”

Max closes his eyes tightly. He is almost inaudible when he replies: “Can I ask for something? For old time’s sake?”

Jim looks back at Sebastian and rolls his eyes: _can you believe this guy?_ Sebastian tries his best to suppress a grin.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he coos, stroking a thumb along the length of Max’ jaw. “Hm?”

“Make it quick.”

Jim clucks his tongue. “Oh, Max. Oh, darling. No, no, no. This is not how this works. _Have you not learned ANYTHING?”_

Both Max and Sebastian flinch at the unexpected shout. It’s not the clubbers outside that they’re worried about – the electropop would drown out even the loudest of screams. It’s rather the abrupt change of temperament that sets the men on edge. If Max is who Sebastian thinks he is, then they are equally aware of what a foul mood means in Jim’s case.

Swift as a viper, Jim’s has slipped Max’ tie from the young man’s neck and wound it around his throat, stepping behind him to cut off his supply of oxygen. He pulls both ends of the tie and Max drops to his knees, his face draining of the little colour it had.

From that point it’s not long before Max’ body is shaken by spasms, his hands clenching and unclenching. As his lifeless body sags down on the floor, Jim lets go of the tie and straightens up. Sebastian notices that the shirt has grown quite tight over his lean body.

“It’s down into the dungeon with you,” Jim quips at the unconscious man, then snaps his fingers at Sebastian. “Which reminds me: we really should get a dungeon. I keep promising people the delight of hanging in old Victorian chains. You know, I have a reputation to uphold after all.”

Sebastian realizes that all he was needed for tonight was muscle power – to carry the body out to the Aston Martin parked around the corner of the nightclub. The rifle was just a ruse to get him out to play. He sulks for a moment until he realizes that Jim has latched his eyes onto Sebastian.

And – _oh,_ he’s aroused.

“I read in _Vogue_ that getting rid of your exes is invigorating, but I didn’t know it would make me feel like _this_.”

So Jim saw Sebastian look at his crotch. Obviously.

Now that it’s happening though, he feels again like sixteen years old and virginal. Well, in this respect, he _is_ a virgin. His heart beats hard and fast, too far up from its original niche in his chest, and all the blood is slowly streaming southward.

Jim doesn’t waste time on kindly words and tender touches. Rejuvenated with power after strangling his old friend, he shoves Sebastian face-forward into the door of the bathroom. With a snap of its straps, he rips the rifle off the sniper’s back. Sebastian stares at his breath misting the wood beneath his mouth and his erection strains almost painfully against the fabric of his trousers.

One hand holding the back of Sebastian’s neck in a steely grip, Jim presses the cool blade of a knife against his shoulder blade. Fear mingles with Sebastian’s arousal and his cock pulses even harder as a response.

Seemingly unfazed by the sudden shudder running down Sebastian’s spine, Jim cuts the shirt from his back in one quick stroke and bares the sniper’s back.

Sebastian hears a sharp intake of breath as Jim unveils the scars that the tiger left behind. He’s too delirious to be embarrassed about it now, but there is no doubt that the shame will come in the aftermath. As it always does.

For now, it’s all about him and Jim. Only in his mind does he dare to think: _his_ Jim. Even so, he whispers it. In case his boss can hear his thoughts, too.

Jim seems more preoccupied unbuckling Sebastian’s belt instead. The trousers come off on their own – living the criminal life with Jim Moriarty takes a toll on your diet, as Sebastian has discovered. He can barely squeeze in a meal between sniping a business man and torturing some poor bastard with a baseball bat.

As the pants drop as well, Sebastian feels the hard outline of Jim’s cock pressed against his skin and his mind goes into overdrive. Jim grabs a fistful of his hair and forces Sebastian to crane his neck, limiting his air supply. It’s not like he could breathe properly earlier, however.

Then he hears Jim unbutton his own trousers. And there it is – skin on skin, Jim’s cock against his arse. As Sebastian grows consistently more desperate to tend to his erection, he also feels another lust bloom inside of him that hungers for another kind of intimacy. He doesn’t mind the rough approach – it turns him on. But a kiss, a nibble on the neck… is that too much to hope for?

Perhaps with Jim such is the case.

A warm breath heats up his ear. “I know you’re a virgin, Moran. This might hurt – but you will like it.”

Jim’s cock finds his puckered opening and without further due, he thrusts into Sebastian, who swears he can feel every inch go into him like a sword. His insides ignite and aside from the uncomfortable sense of fullness, he also feels the wetness of blood. He presses himself against the door and claws at the door in pain.

“Come now,” says Jim softly as he rocks Sebastian’s body. His voice is edged with pleasure and after a few thrusts, the sniper realizes that his cock that had wilted somewhat from the pain begins to rise anew. It still _burns_ , but he rides on the waves of agony instead of going rigid against Jim.

It starts to feel kind of fucking good.

“There now,” murmurs Jim into his hair.

Sebastian tries to lower his hand to do something about his once again throbbing hard-on, but Jim shoves him so hard into the door that Sebastian bangs his head on the wood. A hiss ruffles the hair on the back of his neck: “Tonight is about _me._ ”

So the sniper has to contend with awkwardly rubbing his erection against the smooth surface of the door while Jim pushes into him from behind. Every so often, Jim’s cock brushes his prostate and the world goes white. Jim doesn’t let the bliss develop into full climax, however, leaving Sebastian whimpering like a bitch in heat against the door. It’s degrading.

He loves it.

All at once, Jim freezes up against Sebastian’s back and his grip on his hair tightens so much so that a tear escapes Sebastian’s eye. Then the criminal mastermind slumps forward and the cum flows past his penis down over Sebastian’s legs.

Jim being Jim, he doesn’t leave any time over for pillow-talk. Tucking back his cock into his trousers after drying it off of Sebastian’s torn shirt, he zips up and lets Sebastian crumple to the floor like a man made of paper. He makes one last try to relieve himself of his pained arousal, but Jim clucks his tongue and Sebastian leaves it be. He pants onto the tiles, trying to get strength back into his body to get up.

He’s so out of it that he doesn’t know if what just happened is real or not.

“My, my… Perhaps you will be more useful to me than just for sniping, _Sebastian._ I will enjoy breaking you in.”

Sebastian somehow manages to get his pants back on, his arse uncomfortably sticky with cum and blood. Then the trousers. The shirt is a goner, of course.

“Well, you know what to do. I feel like having a drink after that vigour.”

Back to his usual chirpy self, then. Sebastian leans back on the wall for support. He can barely stand.

Jim comes as close as he did to Max and Sebastian stares at his lips, even though he knows he will be reprimanded for that later.

“I hope you’re in it for the long haul, Sebastian, or you’ll end up like little Maxie here. In return I will bring you on the most exhilarating ride of your life before… well, before the inevitable.”

With that, he leaves Sebastian in his own mess and returns to the noise of the club.

And all Sebastian can think of is: _oh god, yes._


End file.
